


Waste

by TaciturnLove



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Crossdressing, Depression, Dom/sub Play, Draco Malfoy has a filthy mouth, Harry is running from something, M/M, Muggle Life, Rape/Non-con Elements, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:47:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25903807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaciturnLove/pseuds/TaciturnLove
Summary: Not all heroes have lightning bolt scars. Some have platinum blonde hair.Or, Harry's got a problem that only Malfoy can seem to fix.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	1. Angel

**Author's Note:**

> Please review the tags in this story before continuing, some of the themes described or mentioned can be sensitive to some readers. Additional tags will be added as the story progresses. Thanks for reading!

_Harry,_

__

_We are worried about you. Please, can you at least tell us where exactly you are staying? This is not like you. The Ministry will not be able to hold your position for you much longer. We know things had been hard for you lately, but you need to talk to us. We want to help you, Harry. Rose misses you, she asks about you every day. Please Harry, just let us know where you are and how we can help. We love you._

__

_Love,_

__

_Hermione W._

Harry stares at the letter in his hands. His vision blurs through his tears as he sniffs unceremoniously. The letter arrived about two weeks ago, and Harry has not received another since, nor has he responded. It’s a bit crumpled at the edges, and Harry does his best to smooth it out tenderly. His hands are shaky. He sits at a small table for one in an efficiency somewhere in Muggle America. He really hasn’t gone too far off the grid, has he? He’s just made sure to lose his wand (it’s safe and sound in Grimmauld Place) and change his appearance a bit. He has dyed his hair with muggle hair dye, to a slightly less dark brown color, and he wears contacts instead of glasses. And that’s all it takes to go missing from the Wizarding world, apparently.

The efficiency itself is quite modest in size. It’s one whole large room, with a bed, a table, a bathroom, and a small kitchenette inside of it. But that’s all Harry really needs. He’s got a decent sized wardrobe for the few clothes he has brought with him. It’s still an upgrade from when he was a child, having spent so much time in a cupboard. The rather minute size of the apartment is comforting at times, in all honesty. Not a whole lot of upkeep, and the rent is very manageable. All in all, he is happy with it, despite how unsafe others may deem the area.

Harry stands and stretches languidly before padding into the kitchen to make himself some toast and eggs. His head is pounding. He fumbles around in the medicine cabinet and finds a rather large bottle of ibuprofen. It’s half empty, so he makes a mental note to buy more at the grocery store later. Hands still shaking, he takes three pills from the bottle and washes them down with some whiskey that sits on his counter from the previous night. He blanches as the warm liquid burns its way down his throat, then finishes off the rest and places the tumbler in the sink. He makes another mental note to do the dishes today, perhaps when his head is feeling a bit better.

He sits at the table with his breakfast and forces himself to finish at least half of the meal, despite the way his sour stomach protests or the way the nausea hits him in waves. When he’s had enough, he places the dishes in the sink to pile on top of the others. It hasn’t exactly gotten out of hand, but the dishes have started to pile and there is a slightly unpleasant odor that surrounds the area. Harry scrunches his nose at it before walking back over to his bed. Another mental note to do the laundry at some point, as the bed sheets are starting to smell a bit too. It’s times like these that make him miss the Wizarding world the most, as he could go for a simple cleaning spell right now. Regardless, he feels very tired, and with the pounding head and sour stomach combination making it difficult to stay upright, he decides that now is as good a time as any for a quick cat nap. He pays no mind to the digital clock on his nightstand, the red glaring numbers reading 10:00am.

Two hours later, Harry finds himself stumbling groggily to the bathroom to relieve himself. The headache seems to have subsided just a bit, enough so that his thoughts are allowed to turn for the worst. Dark thoughts threatening to intrude upon his blurry consciousness and ruin his overall tranquil mood. Harry can’t bear it, so he finds his way back to the kitchen and pulls the whiskey glass out of the sink. He pours himself two fingers and adds a few ice cubes from the freezer. Then he sits at his small table yet again and pulls out the letter. He sighs as he reads the words over and over, taking comfort in the easy feeling that settles into his soul, the way that the dark thoughts just slip away and the world around him appears slightly fuzzy at the edges. Once the uneasy feeling has fully subsided, about two whiskey drinks later, Harry finally starts his day.

He finishes his chores mechanically. Laundry, dishes, bathroom tub. Then he grabs his coat and braves the cold as he walks to the nearest grocery store. He buys eggs, milk, bread, meat, and frozen vegetables. He grabs a bottle of whiskey and a bottle of rum, and, almost an afterthought, a gallon of water. The cashier rings him up with no issue. If she’s noticed that Harry buys alcohol almost daily, she doesn’t comment. Harry likes it that way. No one recognizes him here. No one cares. No one is judging, at least not outwardly, and that’s more than enough for him. He takes the brown paper bags holding his groceries and walks back to his apartment complex. The sky is grey and a cold drizzle of rain alternately falls and dissipates. Harry concentrates on his footsteps, the sounds of children playing in the nearby park, the engines of cars as they pass him on the road. It’s a short walk, and he soon finds himself at his doorstep.

Once inside, Harry puts away his groceries. He pours himself a double shot of rum, washes it down, and then forces himself to drink a glass of water. He can’t stop the tears as they fall from his eyes, so instead he wipes at them furiously and sinks down to the carpet. He makes a mental note to vacuum tomorrow, even as sobs begin to escape him and his body shakes with emotion. He gasps for air, screams, slams his fists into the wall behind him. It lasts only a few minutes before he composes himself and climbs to his feet. He finishes the glass of water, tosses the dishes in the sink, and makes his way to the bathroom, where he grabs a quick shower. The water doesn’t stay hot for very long, but Harry doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need a lot of time to wash up anyways. People are yelling at each other next door, the muffled sounds of it drifting through the walls as Harry dries himself roughly with a towel.

He opens his wardrobe and grabs a pair of jeans and black t-shirt, dresses himself quickly. Harry grabs his coat and makes his way out, without even a glance at the mirror. His hair will do what it pleases, no sense in bothering. The sun is already setting, the sky partially illuminated with swirls of soft pinks and oranges mixed in with the grey. It’s freezing, so Harry wraps his coat around himself tightly. It’s fully dark before he reaches his destination, most of the streets and sidewalk are empty until he hits the main road he searches for. The artificial lights of streetlamps shine much too bright as Harry walks, head bowed, focusing only on his feet as they shuffle on the sidewalk.

He is relieved when he finally reaches his destination, a strip of road bustling with bars and nightlife. Groups of young women cling tightly to each other as they stumble drunkenly around, laughing and singing, talking loudly at each other over the muted music drifting in from the many bars flashing “open” nearby. What Harry likes the most about this area is how open and free everyone is. It’s not just groups of women, there are men, too, and people of all different ages and sizes. People can dress the way they want, kiss whoever they want, and say whatever they want without fear of judgment. There are bars and clubs that meet anyone’s needs as well. For Harry, there is one particular night club that he likes to call his home away from home, “Evol,” a play on the word “love.” It’s a gay bar, something he didn’t know he had been missing until he stumbled upon it several months ago. He sighs contentedly as he steps inside, allowing his senses to take in the sensations all around him; the smell of sweat, cologne, and liquor, the loud booming of the rhythmic music in the background, and the heat of packed bodies twisting together on the dance floor.

Harry can feel himself relaxing. He makes his way to the bartender and orders a strong drink, eyes skimming the crowd for a familiar face. The man he searches for is standing off in a corner, shrouded in shadow. He leans against the wall, watching the crowd, his dark, spiked hair glinting with shiny gel in the distance. Harry smiles, paying the bartender before making his way through the crowd. The throng of writhing bodies seems to ebb and flow around him, hands and body parts pressing onto him as he squeezes through with purpose. The dark haired man smiles, sickly sweet down at him, brown eyes flashing as his hand reaches into his black leather jacket pocket.

“Henry,” the man says, “you’re like clockwork my man. Same as usual?” Harry nods, returning the smile. He pulls American muggle money from his own pocket. Lost amongst the crowd and shadow, an exchange is made. Harry takes the pill and swallows it down in one fluid motion, allowing the bitter taste to wash over his tongue and throat.

“Thank you, Jim.” He says gratefully, already moving away from him to shuffle toward the crowd. Harry finishes the rest of his drink and discards the glass onto a random table top before making his way onto the dance floor. He begins to dance freely, feeling the heat and sweat of random bodies pressing against his as others are drawn to him. It doesn’t take much longer for Harry to feel an intense sense of joy begin to take hold of him, the pure happiness coupled with a burst of energy fills him with overwhelming euphoria. He presses closer to his dance partner, arms wrapping around his waist as they grind against each other. He can feel the music thrumming into his veins now, blood pumping in rhythm with the beat, and his eyes roll in his head from the pleasure of it.

Harry laughs, the sound of it swallowed up by the music, but his partner sees it and returns a bright smile. Harry’s eyes sweep over him. He is attractive; young, slim build, green eyes, blonde hair, and he is dressed in tight skinny jeans with an open, button-up cotton shirt. His tanned abdominal muscles glint with sweat as he shakes his hips. Harry thinks he’s in love. They continue like this, grinding and dancing together for some time, in which Harry is just happy to be alive. It all comes to a grinding, sudden halt when Harry glimpses a flash of light brown hair in the crowd, with a facial structure that looks much too familiar. Harry feels the panic rise like bile in his throat, and he pushes at his dance partner, bends over to take deep, gulping breaths.

“I need to get out of here.” He croaks, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes sweep the crowd again, but he can’t seem to find what he had seen just seconds before.

“Relax man, there’s no one out to get you… maybe you’re just a little paranoid?” His dance partner asks, placing a hand on his arm. Harry stares at the hand for far too long. Maybe that’s it, it’s happened before so it’s not completely out of the realm of possibilities. He just needs to get a grip. He can feel his heart beating so rapidly in his chest that he thinks it might burst out at any second.

“Listen, why don’t we go back to the bar? I’ll buy you a drink.” His dance partner says, and it’s clear to Harry that this man is invested. 

"Okay, maybe just one..." he says, allows the blonde to grasp his shoulder and lead him back to the bar. 

Once seated, Harry closes his eyes, lets his head sink into his arms and works to slow his breathing. He just needs to calm down. It would be almost impossible for him to have really seen who he thought he just saw in the crowd. He must really be losing it. A gentle tap on his shoulder brings him out of his reverie. Harry looks up into bright green eyes, not too different from his own (when he isn’t wearing color changing contacts, that is). The blonde’s smile is disarming, and Harry feels an overpowering sense of affection for the man as he nods at him and accepts the glass that is being pressed into his hand.

“Thank you.” He says, sipping gratefully. He's met with a smile, a gentle touch to his shoulder. But it doesn't feel right again somehow, the idea that HE might be out there.....highly unlikely but the thought has been planted like a seed now. His head begins to hurt and he feels suddenly exhausted. Must be a bad high. Harry makes a mental note to talk to Jim about this. He gulps the rest of his drink down in one fluid motion. 

"Listen, I'm sorry, but I think I'd better go." He says, placing his hand over the attractive gentleman's where it rests on his shoulder and removing it from his person. The smile falters a bit, eyes glinting almost dangerously as he nods slowly.

"Okay, I'll walk you out." His blonde acquaintance replies. Harry opens his mouth to protest but finds it hard to form any words. He tries to shake his head instead, but it feels too heavy, so he moves to stand. He finds himself swaying, and alarm bells are now beginning to sound off in his mind. This isn't right. 

"Woah, let me help you." Says the man who Harry is almost 100% sure has spiked his drink. Harry feels a strong arm reach up and grab him from underneath his sagging shoulders. His dance partner begins to walk him out and Harry has no choice but to lean heavily onto him for support. He wants to scream, to punch him and run away, but he can barely keep his eyes open.

Harry is forced out into the blistering cold weather without his coat, which he realizes was left draped over his seat inside the bar. It's foggy and wet out, and the streets have cleared for the most part. That's just great, Harry thinks, his luck is impeccable. It's extremely difficult to keep his eyes open at this point, and he can barely move his limbs. The slimy blonde git is basically dragging him along toward an empty alleyway on the side of the bar. The light doesn't quite penetrate back here, and it's eerily silent save for the slight whooshing of the wind around them.

"Nnmmmpphhh." Harry says, trying his hardest to form the word "no." His head lolls to the side now, leaning into the strong warmth of his captor. He smells nice, which somehow makes all of this feel worse, because Harry thinks he might have let the idiot fuck him if he had just asked politely. 

"Don't worry, I've got you." He says in mock reassurance, and he is grabbing roughly now, jostling Harry further back into the alley until he is satisfied with their privacy. He then pushes Harry down face first into the freezing, muddy ground. The worst part is that Harry can still feel all of it, even as he loses the ability to move entirely. He does his best to move his head so he can at least breathe. He is dying inside, the feel of the hands worming their way into his jeans terrifying him to his very core. 

He feels hot breath on his ear, scorching tongue licking the shell of it as his rapist pants against him. "You're so gorgeous." He whispers throatily, and Harry tries his best to look away. Ahead in the distance, a tiny light seems to dance in midair. Harry focuses on that light as it moves up, illuminating the face of what could only be an angel. His angel leans against the wall in the far back of the alley. He has sharp, angular features, and hair that is so blonde it looks white is slicked back with purple and blue glittery gel. 

The tall angel doesn't seem to notice Harry as he carries on smoking, the light from his cigarette butt allowing Harry to catch certain glimpses of him. Silver eyes draped in black eye liner and purple eye shadow, lips painted blood red, and a tight, short black dress clinging to slim muscles poking out from a long, glossy black coat. The angel then starts as he notices him suddenly. Molten eyes widen as Harry pleads silently with him, trying desperately to hold onto his fading consciousness. He flicks the cigarette down on the ground and crushes it under silver stiletto heal.

"Fuck," says the angel, just before everything turns black. 

~*~

At first, Draco doesn't quite realize what he is witnessing. He startles and almost screams when he sees a man staring at him from the ground about 10 feet away. He thought he had been alone. But as he squints through the fog and the scene unfolds further, he feels sick to his stomach. Terrified blue eyes stare up at him and Draco knows without a doubt that he needs to intervene.

"Fuck," he says elegantly, watching the prone man lose consciousness. The blonde twink that had been undressing the unconscious man moments before stops his disgusting ministrations and surveys his surroundings. Draco deduces that he only has a few moments to act. He wraps his coat around himself tightly and charges at the other man, figuring the element of surprise will give him the upper hand. 

Draco was right. The surprise coupled with the sharp heels of his stilettos proves to be very effective. He proceeds to beat the shit out of the rapist, taking pleasure in the sickening crunch of his heel breaking as he kicks it into the side of his face. He knows that will definitely leave a nasty mark. 

The real test is hoisting the unconscious man up so that Draco can half-drag, half-carry him to his car. He instantly is struck with a sense of familiarity upon closer inspection of the guy's face. He looks a lot like Harry Potter. But there's no way that would be possible, right? Draco regrets not working out as often as he should have, because this man is fucking heavy! He is panting heavily and sweating despite the cold by the time they make it to the car. He tosses Potter wannabe (he might actually be Potter's muggle doppelganger, he looks so much like him) into the passenger seat unceremoniously and then fumbles with his keys to get the motor running so he could at least turn on the damn heater. This guy feels like a block of ice, and Draco thinks that is not a good thing at all. 

Heater on, Draco takes a moment to assess the situation. What does he do now? Wait for this dude to wake up? And then what happens? The radio clock glares 2:00am and Draco is really tired. He taps the gently snoring man on the shoulder, gaining no reaction. _Shit, shit, shit._

"Umm....sir?" He tries again, feels like an idiot for using the word "sir," and then decides to shake him rather violently. If this guy has been drugged, it's going to take a bit of work to bring him back to consciousness. The lightning bolt scar revealed under heavy fringe is like a jolt of electricity to his nerve endings, and he jerks back, hitting his head against the window of the driver's seat. 

"Holy fucking shit! This can't be happening!" He yells loudly to himself, trying to calm his breathing. Okay, now he is absolutely certain it's Harry _fucking_ Potter passed out in his car. Things just got a lot more complicated. Decision made, Draco pulls out of the parking lot and onto the rather empty road. He drives the 15 minutes to his home, and once again finds himself half-dragging, half-carrying an unconscious Harry Potter, this time to his spare bedroom. He removes the cold, wet clothes from Potter carefully, making sure to leave the boxers on, and wraps him tightly in the blankets. The poor git is still looking clammy and shivery. 

Once Potter is secured in the bed, Draco closes the door with a soft click and finds his way into the kitchen. He pours himself a glass of water, drops some Alka Zeltzer and gulps it down, before stripping out of his heavy coat. Despite the chill of the outside, he feels devastatingly hot. His heart is pounding a mile a minute. He stumbles over to his bathroom and runs the shower, scrubbing the gel and make up from his hair and face respectively before climbing in. He finds himself finally relaxing as the hot water pounds over his sore muscles. 

He just needs to think. There has got to be a way out of this. What was Potter doing in the same club that Draco frequents from time to time? Was he looking for him? Draco thought he had covered his tracks and disappeared from the Wizarding world without a trace. He did not want to be found. He's worked so hard to make a new life for himself. He's got friends, and a life here. And it's been so many years, what could they want with him anyway? Draco's first thought is to go through the Gryffindor's pockets to see what he can find, there's got to be a clue somewhere. 

Draco pads into his kitchen and grabs a can of cat food from the pantry. He hears the tinkling sound of the bell attached to his cat as the cat meows his way into the kitchen. "Hey, Mochi, sorry I forgot to feed you earlier." Draco says guiltily, stroking the cat's soft fur. The black and white feline purrs in appreciation and meows softly before tucking in to his newly offered meal. Cat now happy, Draco sneaks into the bedroom where Potter's jeans are hanging from a chair. The man is snoring quite loudly, with some soft groaning and whining interspersed between snores. Draco grimaces, remembering what had happened earlier in the evening.

Potter's messy pockets turn out to be quite the gold mine of information. In his wallet, Draco finds an ID, with the name Henry Porter (Draco has to snort at this), and an address that Draco recognizes as being in a rather shady part of town. He finds his glasses (still the same broken ones he's always had), some cash, loose change, a grocery reward members card, and a bank card. All pretty standard stuff. Deeper in the pocket is a crumpled letter, which Draco begins to read, but then feels rather guilty about once he is half-way through. So Potter has gone off grid, interesting, but why? There are some crumpled receipts from the grocery store. Potter seems to eat healthy but he buys a lot of alcohol. A small piece of paper with the name Jim and a phone number scribbled on it (Draco raises his eyebrow at this). A few tiny empty baggies, and one tell tale baggie with a single pill that Draco is very familiar with. He immediately takes the pill out of the baggie and tosses it into the garbage disposal, then stuffs Potter's items, including the empty baggies, back into the soggy pockets.

He knows what he needs to do.

~*~

The first thing Harry notices upon waking is that he is in a complete stranger's bedroom. His heart begins to race as he blinks blurrily at his surroundings. His head is pounding, mouth dry, and limbs heavy. His eyes are burning at not having taken out his contacts the night before. He is in his boxers but he is covered with a thick, warm blanket. The room smells oddly familiar, although Harry can't quite place where he might recognize it...it reminds him a bit of Hogwarts, actually, a thought that makes his throat sting. But the most alarming of all is the lack of control of his wrists. They are positioned above his head in a manner that is quite uncomfortable, shackled to the head board. Harry's throat fills with bile as he struggles against his bindings, nausea coming in waves. What has he gotten himself into?

"Potter." His heart stops at the familiar voice uttering his given name. He hadn't even realized he wasn't alone. He whips his head to the side and sees the angel from last night, standing tall in the doorway, eyes blazing. Fragments of the events from last night swirl in his head, a confusing, muddled mess. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries not to panic. 

"Potter, stop, I'm not going to hurt you." The angel says, and Harry can hear some shuffling steps as he presumably steps closer to him.

"What the _fuck_ , Malfoy?" Harry finds his voice, and although it's hoarse, he is pretty proud at how intimidating he still manages to sound. Malfoy doesn't flinch, however, but he does stop his movements, standing stiffly a few feet away from the bed.

"I should be asking you the same question," when Malfoy speaks, his voice is melted velvet. Masculine, smooth, and somehow so soft. Gone is the arrogance that Harry remembers. "Why is it that the Wizarding World's Golden Boy suddenly shows up at the same establishment that I have frequented for years?"

Harry doesn't know how to answer that. True, it could seem odd from Malfoy's point of view. Malfoy's been missing from the Wizarding world for years now, and no one bothered to look for him. He didn't exactly recover very well after the war. Harry remembers reading about it in the papers. His father locked in Azkaban, mother off in France somewhere, and Malfoy himself, disappeared. At the time, Harry thought maybe he went to France with his mother. He didn't put much thought into it after that. The world just kept spinning. 

"My being there had nothing to do with you, Malfoy." Harry says. He really doesn't want to get into it right now. He needs a drink. He needs to get the fuck out of here and as far away from anything that reminds him of his past, and quickly. "Just let me go and I'll be on my way!" He screams, and it comes out harsher than he intended.

"The fuck it doesn't, Potter. Do you even remember what happened last night?!" It all comes flooding back, the panic and the hatred and the cold, hard ground against his face. The flick of a cigarette, shocked grey eyes. Harry shuts his eyes against the torrent of emotions, gasps for breath. 

"You're being reckless Potter, bound to get yourself killed! And if they find out I was anywhere near the vicinity of your death, you bet your ass they'll somehow find a way to pin it on me. So yes, Potter, I'm involved now whether you like it or not."

"Are you...blaming me for what happened to me?!" Harry asks against his pounding headache and sour stomach. He wants to just lay his head back on the comfortable pillow and go back to sleep, everything suddenly feels much too heavy and suffocating.

"No, I..." Malfoy hesitates, takes a breath, seems to try again, "no Potter, what happened to you last night was not your fault. But when I said you were being reckless, I meant the drug and alcohol abuse... Do you know what muggle drugs will do to a wizard's magical core?" 

Harry has the decency to try and look affronted. "You have no idea what you're talking about." He says it calmly, with every ounce of intimidation left within him, and it seems to work. Malfoy takes a breath, his eyebrows crease. Maybe, Harry thinks, it's working. But then Malfoy relaxes, raises an eyebrow.

"Okay, then you'll be fine without a drink for the next 24 hours, right? I'll tell you what, if you can go for that amount of time without a drink or a pill, which you'll be hard pressed to find here anyway, you're free to go."

"You want me to spend 24 hours here?!" It sounds almost too loud in the room, the echoes causing Harry's head to throb again. 

"Yeah." Malfoy says, and he looks tired to Harry, a man who is worried and dare he think it, afraid. But none of this is making sense. 

"What-" He starts, but Malfoy interrupts.

"I know all the signs, Potter... I've basically made a life here, in the muggle world, and I'm what muggles call a 'substance abuse counselor.' I've done it for years." Malfoy is nervously tracing a tattoo on his left wrist, it's a muggle tattoo of a dragon, leaving the serpent's scar that Harry knows is there, completely unrecognizable. Harry recognizes the dragon from childhood, it's not a dragon from the Wizarding world, but a Chinese muggle dragon from fairy tales, long and deep red, wrapping almost all the way up Malfoy's arm. 

"It's none of your business, Malfoy. You've had your fun, now just let me go." Harry says, but the emotion behind it is gone. Part of him wants to just give up and let the world swallow him whole.

"I'm sorry, Potter, I can't let you leave like this. I have a feeling you've run from something, it's the only explanation as to why you are here. And with no magic, we might just be an even match." Malfoy snorts at that, as if using his short comings for humor would somehow make Harry feel better. But that's not right, because since when did Malfoy care about how Harry feels? And since when did he have a sense of humor?

"Why should I trust you?" Harry says, but he regrets that, because he knows deep down inside that if it hadn't been for Malfoy last night, something terrible would have happened to him, something he may not have been able to come back from. 

"You definitely shouldn't trust me, Potter, but things will go much more smoothly if you just cooperate. This is what I do, and I can show you proof of that. At least, so you can see that I know what I'm doing. Just let me help you, Potter."

Malfoy draws nearer, and Harry can smell him. He smells clean, and earthy, with a hint of spice that Harry can't quite place but knows it's uniquely Malfoy's scent because he remembers it from Hogwarts. And he looks...well Harry doesn't want to admit how he looks. Angelic would have been the term he used last night when he was drugged out of his mind. He's wearing makeup again, but it's not as prominent, just a touch of black at the eyes, bringing out the stark contrast of ice grey, and some gloss at the lips. His hair is no longer gelled and glittery, but hangs rather loosely around his chin, framing his face with fine white-blonde strands. And he's got some muscle, but mostly he is tall and lean and has limbs for days. He's dressed in a pair of black tight pants and a black t-shirt with the words "Deja Entendu" written on it. There's a gold stud in his left ear at the helix. He's aged well, and whatever he's done for himself in the muggle world, it seems to suit him. Unlike what Harry's got going on these days, he's sure he looks like a wet puppy in comparison. And he can't imagine what he must smell like, booze and sick, most likely. 

At that moment, Harry thinks, maybe this won't be so bad. He'll just stick it out and prove he doesn't have a problem. Because he doesn't, not really. He's just been going through a bit of a rough patch. But he can stop any time. He just needs a hot shower, some ibuprofen, and a proper breakfast. He'll be out of here in no time. He can thank Malfoy by doing this, show him everything's fine, and be on his way. What could go wrong?


	2. 24 hours - Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning, this is me trying to write a slow burn, which I have never attempted before. Please heed the tags and warnings. Thanks for reading, and feel free to let me know what you think!

"Okay," Potter says, and he sounds suddenly tiny and helpless and there is so much pain behind the words that it's almost frightening. Draco has to look away, the emotion in Potter's eyes is just so intense and vulnerable suddenly. He isn't even sure of his own motivations behind what he is doing. True, he is afraid that Potter's untimely death would somehow be connected to him if he were to continue. But is that really enough? Something about seeing him, face down on the cold stone floor in some back alley, it really effected Draco somehow. More than he cares to admit to himself.

"Okay?" He repeats, dumbfounded.

"24 hours right? And then I'm free to go." Potter has shut his eyes, laid his head down on the pillow again. Draco thinks he should probably release him from his shackles now.

"Right," Draco says, "I'm gonna need your Gryffindor's honor that you will stay here for the next 24 hours, and if for some reason you show any signs of-"

"Yes, yes, Gryffindor's honor. I'm fine, Malfoy, you'll see." Draco finds himself staring into vibrantly blue eyes, and it feels weird to him, because Potter's eyes should be green. It's now or never. Potter could choose to run out and report him, and Draco would have it coming honestly, life has been too good to him these past 6 years or so. Karma was bound to catch up to him at some point. His fingers brush against warm, smooth skin as he unlocks the handcuffs with a soft click. He blushes, taking the items and tossing them into the drawer of the nightstand next to him. He backs away quickly, feeling strange.

"The bathroom's right over there," he says, as Potter rubs his wrists awkwardly, "your clothes are in there, too, but you're welcome to anything in the wardrobe....there's a glass of water next to you on the night stand and there's Advil in the bathroom medicine cabinet. I'll have breakfast ready for you when you're sorted."

"Thank you, Malfoy." Potter says, as he sits up and stretches. The blanket has fallen below his pectorals, revealing tan, muscular skin that causes Draco's mouth to dry. He hadn't noticed last night because he was in such a panic. But of course Potter would look this good even with a drug problem and hungover from the night before. Messy dark locks of hair are jutting out from his head in a true Potter fashion. Draco wonders how he didn't just know it was him from the very first moment he saw him. He'd recognized him, true, but had assumed he was a Potter look alike. 

"Don't mention it, really," he answers, and because he can't help himself, he adds, "and for fuck's sake Potter, take out those unnatural contacts and put your glasses on." He hears a slight chuckle at that, as Potter, awkwardly having wrapped himself back up in his blankets and blushing like a school boy, disappears into the bathroom.

Draco rushes down the stairs the moment the bathroom door shuts, realizing he has promised the Gryffindor breakfast. What the fuck was he thinking? He's not a proper host and he knows fuck all about cooking. He takes a look around the kitchen, not much to be found, no surprise there, considering he mostly survives on coffee, cereal, and takeout. Okay, well he can start with brewing some coffee, he at least knows how to do that. The fridge is mostly empty, cupboards just about barren, but there is a loaf of bread and he does have some butter. Okay then, toast it is. Draco fumbles around with the toaster oven, a gift from a friend. Honestly he hasn't quite figured out how to make it work, even though it's been a few years since he's had it. Cooking has been one of the main things to elude him despite having adapted to basically every other aspect of muggle life. 

Mochi wanders into the kitchen, meowing softly and jumping on the counter, getting in the way as Draco tries to get the damn toaster oven to at least turn on. "Yes, yes, I get it, you want attention," Draco mumbles, pushing the cat off the counter only to have him jump back up and meow harder. Sighing in defeat, Draco strokes the kitty's soft fur until he is purring like a freight engine. "I wouldn't suppose you know how to use the toaster oven?" He asks. The cat meows softly in return and, satisfied with his morning attentions, jumps off the counter and abandons Draco in the kitchen, leaving him to figure it out on his own. He does eventually get the thing on and throws 4 slices of bread into it, before turning back to finish brewing the coffee. 

Figuring the toaster oven knows what it's doing, he makes his way into his living room and searches his rather messy book case for his Counseling degree. It's been years since he needed to show it to anyone, so he isn't quite sure where he's left it. He really should keep it in a safe spot. He isn't even sure that Potter will believe a piece of paper in the first place. But Potter spent a lot of his childhood in the muggle world, has spent some time in it lately, so there's a chance. He locates it in pristine condition and then makes his way back to the kitchen, where the toaster oven is smoking and it smells of burnt toast. 

"Fuck's sake!" He yells, grabbing a towel and opening the blasted machine. He pulls the now overly burnt toast out and slams the oven door shut, then unplugs it from the wall. He grabs a knife and starts scraping the burnt part from the toast. A ring on his cell phone draws his attention away from his futile attempts at rescuing breakfast. "Shit." He says again, answers the phone, "Hi Darlene! Oh yes, I was going to call, I've had a family emergency and won't be able to come in today. So sorry, yes I know it's last minute. Yes, Yes, I appreciate it. Thank you, really." He hangs the phone up and turns back to the catastrophe of a meal he has tried to prepare before groaning in frustration.

The sound of someone clearing their throat alerts him to the fact that he is no longer alone. Standing in the dining room is a very clean, if still a bit unkempt, glasses wearing Harry Potter. He's also managed to borrow some clothes from Draco, a blue t-shirt and white-washed jeans. His hair is still atrocious, but lacks the greasy luster from earlier. Bright, rather large green orbs are peering at him from underneath the familiar spectacles. Draco is hard pressed to admit that something about seeing the other man dressed in his clothes is causing him to feel some type of way. But there's no time to analyze his feelings on the matter. He needs to finish scraping the toast and then apply the butter.

"My degree is on the table," he says distractedly, "along with my ID, if you want to take a look." He hears shuffling, presumably it's Potter inspecting the documents. He hears a rather loud and unbecoming snort from the table.

"Drake McAfoy?" Potter laughs, plopping heavily onto a dining room chair and taking sips from the coffee Draco has laid out. Draco wants to respond in kind, make a joke about Henry Porter, but realizes at the last second that Potter wouldn't be too keen on knowing he's gone through his personal belongings. 

"If you were expecting gourmet food, you'll be sorely let down." He says instead, attempting at humor, and slams the plate of darkened toast onto the table. Potter eyes the toast as if its got mold growing on it. He gulps down some more of the coffee. Seems to think a long time before he speaks again.

"Why don't you let me make something? I'm a pretty good cook." He finally says, minutes after staring down at the now cold charcoal briquettes on the plate.

"All I've got is bread and butter." Draco responds lightly, "but you're welcome to make some yourself if you'd prefer. Cooking is not my strong suit. I mainly survive on coffee and takeout." He doesn't quite know how to respond to the offer, so he continues with the self-depreciating humor. This is foreign territory between the two of them, and he wonders how long it will last. At his words, Potter gets up from the table and works his way into the kitchen. Draco keeps his eyes fixed forward, sipping from the still warm coffee and resisting the urge to stare at Potter as he tinkers around in the kitchen, fixing what will presumably be much better toast than Draco could ever dream of making himself.

He's not disappointed, the toast is lovely. They sit together for a while, the only sounds being the crunching of toast and sipping of coffee. Draco is lost in thought, wondering how exactly to proceed from here. Does he just sort of awkwardly watch Potter for the rest of his 24 hours? He knows the Gryffindor won't last that long without experiencing some kind of withdrawal at least. And how to convince him he needs more help once it's all brought to light? Unless he's wrong, which is certainly within the realm of possibilities. He questions himself again, wonders why he is even doing this, becomes hopeful that maybe he is wrong. Maybe he caught Potter on a bad night, nothing more. But he knows the signs, is adept at recognizing them. He's done this for so long that he is fairly confident in his ability to notice things, even the smallest things others may not notice. For instance, the strained way that Potter is biting at his toast, the way he is looking around restlessly, the small droplets of sweat at his temples. The clammy git is already going through it and it's only morning. He must have it bad.

Mochi climbs up onto Potter’s lap, earning a surprised and rather delighted expression from the dark haired man. He scratches the feline behind his ears, earning a loud purr as the cat rubs his face into his hands. Draco introduces him as Mochi, and earns himself an almost amazed look from Potter. They chat for a few seconds about the cat, Draco explains how he rescued him as a kitten when he was abandoned in a box on the side of the highway. Apparently muggles do this sort of thing really often, which was a hard thing for Draco when he first learned of it. The momentary distraction ends all too quickly when the cat decides he’s had enough and scampers out into the hallway.

"We can go to the grocery store today, pick up some things for lunch and dinner, maybe grab you some clothes, since you'll be staying the night." Draco surprises even himself at the words that come out of his mouth. He has just suggested a public outing with his childhood nemesis. He rationalizes it, tells himself he wants to observe Potter at a setting where he has access to alcohol, even in his home where he may have access to drugs. The truth is, time may have softened him. As much as he is loath to admit that to himself. Is he being kind for kindness sake?

"Sure, that'd be great, Malfoy, thanks." Potter flinches, rubs his temples where sweat is now starting a steady drip. He appears to be doing his best to hide this from Draco, but Draco can see it clearly. As a wizard, the withdrawal process will be more intense for Potter but he will be able to overcome it in a shorter period of time. Unfortunately, Draco knows this intimately, as flashes of memories swirl around in his head. He does his best to push them back down, rubbing his left wrist nervously. Wouldn't do to lose his shit right now, not when he's trying to prove he's the real deal. 

"Don't mention it Potter, really." He says, attempting a smile, but really only succeeding in an odd sort of side quirk of his mouth. This is going to be more difficult than he thought. But he knows how to be professional. Treat Potter as another client, he thinks to himself, remain professional. Help him help himself, the sooner that happens, the sooner they can part ways. Potter gives him an odd look at that, but it's clear he is just feeling some discomfort as he winces again, playing with the crusts of the toast left on his plate and controlling his breath so that it comes in slow, even puffs. This must be difficult for the raven haired Gryffindor, to be suffering from withdrawals in the midst of an ex-enemy (Draco's not sure if they might still be enemies, although Potter did speak out for him at the trials, so maybe not? Who’s to say, really?). 

They sit this way a little longer, the silence stretching on into awkward glances at anything but each other’s faces. Potter hisses a bit more, winces, until finally Draco is unable to stand it any longer. He steels himself before standing and going to the medicine cabinet. “You can take some Tylenol now, as it’s different pain reliever from the Advil, so they can be alternated.” He says softly, handing the bottle to Potter, who accepts it rather gratefully. The broad shouldered man grunts in acknowledgement before gulping down a couple of the pills with the rest of his coffee. He looks as if he’s ready to puke up the contents of his rather puny breakfast. Draco catches his own grimace just in time and moves instead to gather up the dishes and bring them over to the sink. Potter barely notices him and he prefers it that way, focuses on scrubbing the dishes mechanically and drying them before putting them back in their respective cupboards. Something about muggle housework really calms Draco down and helps him to relax. He’s content as he goes about cleaning up.

~*~

The ride to his home is rather uneventful. Harry spends most of his time going between utterly perplexed and downright impressed that Malfoy can drive a car. He can’t operate a toaster oven but he can somehow drive a car? The wonders never cease. Malfoy is living in muggle America, he has a career and what seems like a life, owns a cat, and can drive a car. It’s almost too surreal. Through the haze of the crippling nausea and headache, Harry devises a plan. The plan should get him through the next 24 hours without a hinge. He fancies himself to be rather clever, and catches himself before a devious smile forms itself on his lips. He chides himself for the situation he was in the night before. He’ll do better moving forward. He certainly won’t be accepting drinks from strangers anymore. But honestly, he will be okay. He just needs some more time away from everything and everyone to gather himself. And even though every inch of his body and soul are screaming at him for a drink or a pill, anything to take the edge off, Harry ignores it and continues with his delusion.

Malfoy doesn’t say a word when they arrive to Harry’s apartment complex, simply follows along quietly as they make their way into his efficiency. “It’s not much, but it’s more than enough for me.” Harry says rather stiffly, opening the door and allowing Malfoy to enter first. Malfoy gives the place a cursory glance before nodding in acknowledgment at Harry. Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise, he was expecting at least some kind of derogatory remark. Malfoy works his jaw tightly, it seems he is holding something back. “I’ll just be a moment.” Harry gathers some clothing for the overnight, hoping beyond all hope that Malfoy hasn’t seen the bottles of alcohol laid out along the kitchen counter but knowing that he most likely has. There isn’t much else to look at. Thankfully, the space is at least mostly tidy. Harry thanks his regimented lifestyle for that.

He rummages through his jeans (he’s only got a few that he alternates between) in his cupboard, trying his best to be sneaky, and, unable to locate the contents he had been hoping for, curses softly under his breath. It must be in his jeans at Malfoy’s place. That will complicate things a little bit. Harry starts to become desperate now, his minute attempt at some kind of relief has been foiled and everything feels more intense, more desolate somehow. He swallows, tries to breathe, reaches for his letter, and finds an empty pocket instead. He is overcome with dread as he realizes that his letter, too, is in the pocket of his pants at Malfoy’s. Hopefully, the other man has respected his privacy, as Harry can’t risk him knowing the contents of his beloved letter. He grabs a duffel bag and packs some clean clothes; a pair of boxers, a few pairs of pants, and a couple of t-shirts that at least smell pretty decent. As he does so, a backup plan begins to form in his head. Damn, he is just too clever for his own good.

“Ready?” Malfoy asks softly, once Harry has stopped packing and begins to zip up his duffel bag. He nods reluctantly, not really wanting to go, but knowing he can’t back down now. He needs to prove not only to Malfoy but more so to himself that he can do this, even though in the back of his mind he’s got a plan for how to cheat his way out of the entire thing. Harry fancies himself a man who plans. He’s got back up plans for his back up plans, although he hasn’t always been this way. It came with his Auror training, where he was taught that the difference between life and death is the ability to always have a plan, to be steps ahead of your perpetrator. And Harry was good at it. Having spent so much time just “winging it,” it felt good to be in control, to map out his every action and relieve the pressures of the unknown. That is, until he met HIM…

“After you,” Malfoy cuts into his thoughts like a hot knife through butter. Harry blinks over at him before leading the way out of his apartment and the comforting feeling he has attached to it. They go to the same grocery store that Harry has been frequenting as of late, its location conveniently situated just along the way back to Malfoy’s flat. Harry prays that the staff will not mention anything about his usual purchases there. He’s fairly confident that they won’t, as they typically don’t say much either way.

“How does chicken Marsala sound?” Harry asks, grabbing a shopping cart and waving at a cashier that has noticed him. He tries to remain casual although his insides feel as though they are being ripped apart and glued back together, over and over again. The pain medications that Malfoy gave him don’t seem to be working, and for a second Harry worries with sickening dread that Malfoy has been giving him placebos to trick him into having to stay longer than 24 hours. He really isn’t sure what will happen if he fails to keep his cool, he hasn’t asked and he probably won’t need to, as he’ll be fine. Malfoy seems to ponder that for a moment, before a dark look crosses his features. He clears his throat, and Harry already has thrown mushrooms and chicken breasts into their cart by the time he answers.

“Potter….I can’t let you buy alcohol, even if it’s for cooking purposes. How about chicken with mushroom sauce? I do love mushrooms.” He says it awkwardly, but his voice doesn’t lack any conviction. Harry is mortified, hoping desperately that no one has overheard. So plan B has been foiled. Plan C is to hope desperately that he’s got a pill or two leftover from last night’s festivities in his pants pocket at Malfoy’s place. The odds so far have not been in his favor. He catches himself rubbing his temples, teeth clenched as Malfoy stares at him with concern. 

“You alright, Potter?” He asks, taking a step toward him.

“I’m fine.” He snaps, and flinches, as he hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. Malfoy raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing. He looks almost as though he is judging, and that won’t do, as really, Malfoy is not anyone to be judging Harry. If anything it should be the reverse. He catches himself before going down that ugly road, which could only lead to arguing; he is too exhausted to argue. Plus Malfoy is doing his best to be kind, and so far Harry can’t figure out any ulterior motives to his actions. The slimy git seems genuine, which is annoying as hell, honestly.

“Chicken with mushroom sauce sounds great,” Harry tries again, “and for lunch, how about turkey club sandwiches?” He busies himself with gathering more ingredients for their meals, avoiding eye contact with the slightly taller blonde beside him. He can feel the man shuffling on his feet before he answers.

“Sounds perfect, Potter.” He finally says, seeming to soften up a bit. Harry feels his shoulders sagging in relief. They do the rest of their shopping mainly in silence, and Harry does his best to ignore the building pain and tension in his body. He feels like a rubber band, stretched so taught he might snap at any minute. And his vision is slightly blurring at the edges. No, he doesn’t feel well at all. The fifteen or so minutes that it takes them to gather up all the ingredients for their two meals, plus some eggs and more bread for breakfast in the morning are grueling, and Harry is glad when they finally make their way to the cash register to pay for their food.

“Afternoon, Mr. Porter!” The young cashier smiles at him, tossing her light brown hair behind her shoulder. 

“Hi, Mary.” He says politely, offering a slight smile.

“Will this be all..?” She asks, surprised, presumably because there aren’t two or three bottles of various alcohols in the shopping cart. Malfoy exhales softly next to him, opens his mouth as though he is going to ask a question, but Harry quickly cuts him off.

“That’s all, Mary, thank you.” Harry begins to gather the bags and toss them back into the shopping cart as Malfoy pays the cashier, an odd look on his face as he nods at her. He clearly wants to say something but doesn’t, much to Harry’s relief. There’s something so grotesquely domestic about the experience that Harry has momentarily forgotten how much excruciating pain he is in as he ponders the thought. If anyone had told him seven years ago that he would one day be grocery shopping in muggle America with Draco Malfoy of all people, he would have sent them straight to St. Mungo’s. He waves goodbye to Mary as they make their way out of the grocery store, and Harry feels so much relief as his lungs fill with the fresh air of the outside and the threat of being found out is fading slowly behind him. 

More silence on the drive back to Malfoy’s flat, but Harry is thankful for it. His hands feel clammy and his stomach is queasy, the blurriness of his vision creeping from the edges to take over in its entirety. Malfoy be damned, he takes his glasses off and slumps forward with his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. He takes deep breaths, feeling overwhelmed as he holds back from retching and screaming and crying all at once. This isn’t working. He isn’t going to make it through today without dying unless he has some kind of relief. 

“Alright, Potter?” Malfoy says, but it sounds distant and foggy. Harry shakes his head, holding back tears, waving vaguely in Malfoy’s direction. “You should be able to take some more Advil by now,” Malfoy says softly, but he sounds like he’s speaking through a tunnel, and Harry has trouble focusing on the words. He breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. He recites the words of his letter in his mind, and although he doesn’t have the physical sensation of the letter in his hands, it’s enough to help him work through his emotions and lift his head. He opens his eyes as he slides his glasses back on, only to find Malfoy looking at him.

“This hangover is really killing me.” Harry says, voice thick with cement. Malfoy nods ever so slightly and looks away to focus on the road. Harry isn’t sure if he believes him or not, and he steels himself in this moment to get his shit together before he ends up being forced to do some kind of recovery bullshit on Malfoy’s insistence. He doesn’t need this right now. The short drive stretches on into eternity as both men stare forward at the road. Harry’s mind begins to wander into those dark places he tries so desperately to avoid at all costs, and he is grateful when they finally arrive and he is able to focus on taking some advil, sipping water despite his urges to retch everything he is trying to swallow. 

He purposely forces himself to put all his energy and thought into assembling the best turkey club sandwiches he has ever made. He fries up the bacon, slices the tomato, lettuce, slathers the toast in mayonnaise with just a dab of mustard. He takes a moment to admire his creations, and they really are spectacularly assembled. Malfoy moans in agreement as he takes a bite, nodding his head emphatically. Harry doesn’t like the way that sound makes him feel. He doesn’t like the light in Malfoy’s eyes, the way his hair falls into his face, giving Harry the urge to run his fingers through it. He can barely stomach a few bites of his own sandwich, and his anxiety begins to spike as the other man eyes him with concern.

“Are you not hungry?” The blonde asks around a mouth full of sandwich, bits of crumbs sticking to the gloss on his lips. Harry can tell the other man doesn’t eat this well most days. He fights the sudden impulse to wipe the crumbs off his lips with his thumb. He feels a sudden and familiar tightness in his abdomen and freaks out for a moment.

“I’m fine, just need to use the loo.” He stands so quickly he nearly trips over the side of his chair as he makes his way back to the guest bathroom. He feels weird and anxious and his head is swimming. He locates his discarded pants from the previous night and exhales in relief. He grabs his wallet, some bits of paper and receipts, and his letter. He digs deeper into the pocket to find…nothing. Harry is devastated at the realization that he is going completely cold turkey today. There is no way to cheat the system. Plan C has been completely foiled. He takes a moment to allow the desperation and despair to wash over him. Tears prickle at the sides of his eyes and he takes some gulping breaths, squeezing his letter before opening it to look at the familiar neat scrawl of the person he used to trust more than anyone else in the world. Even that doesn’t do the trick, and as the few bites of sandwich he swallowed earlier come back out in a spewy, chunky mess onto the sink, Harry, for the first time, thinks maybe he has a slight problem. 

He allows himself to puke out all of his insides until nothing comes out any longer, and even then he continues to dry heave for quite some time. He washes his mouth out with water and some toothpaste, using his finger as a brush (damn him for forgetting to grab his bag from the other side of the flat). Harry resolves that even if, and that’s a big IF, he has a problem, he is not going to sort it out with a man he hasn’t seen in years and who used to be his enemy. He will get through the rest of his allotted time here and then he will figure his shit out on his own, as he always has. He doesn’t need help, and certainly not from an ex death eater. He feels odd with that last thought, as if it isn’t true or he’s done something wrong by thinking it. But it is true, isn’t it? He reminds himself. He needs to get a grip, and fake it with gusto. He plasters on the best smile he can muster, wipes his watery eyes, runs wet hands through his hair (it doesn’t help), and makes his way back out into the dining room. Malfoy is already clearing out the dishes. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, Potter, you look exhausted,” Malfoy tells him from the sink, giving him a look that says he knows what happened in that bathroom. “Why don’t you try napping for a bit?” Harry thinks that sounds like an amazing idea. He nods and mumbles his agreement before grabbing his duffel bag and turning around to head into the guest room. Just to be sure, he finds his pants again on the guest bathroom floor where he discarded them earlier and searches the pockets thoroughly. He then searches through the rest of his clothes, coming up empty handed once again. He feels suddenly more tired than he has ever felt before in his life. He takes a few deep breaths to calm his frazzled nerves, then strips off his boxers and climbs into the surprisingly comfortable bed. 

He is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think!


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